Fallen London!
by Trefoil-underscore
Summary: A dramatization of my progress in the game. Will be updated irregularly until I don't know when. It will probably not be terribly linear. Note: I wrote in a style that mimics the game writing, but it's not meant to be a reader-insert fic and "You" refers to my own character. But by all means embellish.
1. Falling, falling down

_London Town is falling down, falling down, falling down  
London Town is falling down my fair lady._

Since when has anyone called you a fair lady?

There were a few, yes. None that you were really close to. None that would follow you here.

You fell. Like London. Like the others, the ancient cities. The Fallen Cities. Which cities were they? Where have they gone? Why did they fall? Good questions, and not likely to be answered soon.

They will be. You've decided that. You've fallen into the everlasting night of the Neath, and although escape is possible, the world outside holds little for you now.

You fell from it, not entirely unwillingly, not entirely unmourned.

There are questions burning in you. You leave a world where you were a stranger and enter a world where you are not only a stranger but alien. This world is madness. This world is decay, but buzzing, humming with life.

This is humanity, you think. Buried. Fallen. Lost….

Why does nobody come here? Why can't anyone understand? You want to understand this place. This world. This night untarnished by morning. You want to understand yourself.

You've heard that citizens of the Neath often go mad, if they don't step carefully in the eternal night. You've heard that the most exquisite wisdom in the Neath is found in madness. Perhaps you're already a touch mad, and that's why you fell. You just want to understand this. You just want to see.

It's going to destroy you, isn't it? But you've heard that death is strangely slow-footed in the Neath… perhaps you stand half a chance, after all.

You came into the Bazaar. Jangling, humming with life. The pulse of it throbs at your skull. Bright lights, impossibly angled stalls, glittering colors. How can colors glitter? You're not sure. These do. Foods you've never seen before and which you think look positively lethal, sold in careless folds of newspaper. Gems like demoniac fire reflected in a madman's eyes, hidden, glinting out suddenly here or there. Curious figures and carvings of bone, ivory, wood, stone. Cages full of beetles that glow in the everlasting night, lighting their stall and a wide swath of pathway in front with a bizarre but cheery purple light. You stand over the beetles for some time. They're the first thing in the place that seems to welcome you.

You're alien in this place, and confused. You act wrong, you look wrong, and when you're accosted you shout at entirely the wrong people.

You're given a small room to yourself. The barred window looks down over an ancient buried sea the color of nothing. The lights of Fallen London glitter in the surrounding black.

You wear a striped suit, not quite new or your size but clean enough. You can't say as much for the prisoner's mask they've given you, which smells like it was last worn by a drunk who vomited a lot without bothering to take it off.

Well.

This won't get you anywhere, will it? You're calmer now. You believe you can blend in. But there isn't anyone to help you out of this place so you can have a second chance, is there? You'll just have to look out for yourself, to play a bit shady. You've noticed that a dirigible brings supplies to New Newgate, the place carved from the high rock where you now are, and that it passes directly below your window. How very, very convenient. Your resolve grows stronger, and you feel a taste of something akin to hope. Now if you could only get out…

A guard passes too close to your cell door, and you slip his truncheon out of his belt. He doesn't notice. You are shocked at your unrealized talent for pickpocketing, but it's not all unpleasant. It may be necessary. You'd prefer not—you do remember a few traces of sunshine, a few words of belief in good. You will stay true to the golden threads in your memory. Even here.

But you do realize, of course, that the rules are different down here. This is now your truncheon. If it's a truncheon. It's a swiss-army weapon, half claw hammer, one fourth ice pick, one fourth chopping implement. You think there are traces of blood caked into the head. You decide to clean it as soon as possible.

Whatever the thing is, it's sturdy. You chip one of the bars on your window free, wriggle through and sit on the ledge, kicking your manacled feet happily, looking down at the lights in the darkness. Cave drafts blow between your toes. You smell something like mushrooms. It's not the worst smell, really. You could get used to it. After some time you notice that one of the lights you've been admiring is moving towards you. The dirigible is coming. You wriggle back into your room and watch hungrily as it passes beneath you. No point in jumping too soon, it'd only take you to the supply docks and get you caught again. You smash your manacles with the truncheon and step back onto the ledge, heart hammering, manacles in one hand and truncheon in the other. The cave winds stir your hair. Finally you hear the quiet shushing sound of the dirigible's approach and hold your breath. It appears beneath you and you jump.

You are floating in the silent and lightless air of the Neath. You're committed now. You think of all you've left behind you. Gold-green sunlight on grass. Real wine. Proper animals that don't talk. Sanity, your university, the few admirers—none who loved you enough, whom you loved enough, but they were there, and you thank them silently for that. You've left your clothes and belongings, too, everything you had on you when you fell. They took them when you were given your prison uniform and you doubt you'll ever see them again. You think of the things you lost. Sturdy, comfortable clothes. A hair tie that glitters—you didn't pick it out, a friend gave it to you. One that you will miss. A pang touches your chest as you fall weightlessly through the dark. A single piece of gold, a watch with small etched animals standing guard beside each number. A folding knife from your dead uncle. Scuffed boots. Some threads of belongings, some bits of useless Surface currency. Nothing you'll really need, here in the darkness.

You land on the top of the dirigible and feel its smooth descent to the city of Fallen London.

You're coming back to this place, no longer an alien. You've committed yourself to the Neath. You're going to discover its secrets—or fall under its madness.

 **A/N: Go listen to A Chantar Mer by Angels of Venice. Partly because I listened to it while writing this and it seemed to fit, but mostly because it's an awesome song and everyone should hear it once.**


	2. Mudlarking

_The cobbles are slippery with a thick black moss. Your footfalls bruise it, and a scent like fresh Surface rain rises._

You've escaped, now there is only the question of where to jump off. Your escape will be for nothing if you fall and break your neck, or if you're caught jumping off the dirigible when it lands. There: that looks near enough to jump to. You step off the dirigible and drop lightly onto the top of the free-standing arch. The dirigible sails away, leaving you alone above the lights of the city, cave draft seeping through your clothes. You kneel there for a moment, enjoying the view, enjoying your freedom. Scents waft up to you of fried things, fungoid things, human smell and rot. You crawl to the edge and peer down. Urrgh. The drop from New Newgate to the lightless Unterzee was much farther than this, but it didn't make you feel queasy because you saw nothing but darkness. This, though… There's a well-lit street, some old ladies in rags selling something from baskets to passersby, some idling persons. They're all very far down. You focus on the carvings near you. You think you could use them to climb down. Taking a deep breath, you hang the manacles over your shoulder, hang the truncheon down the back of your shirt, and let yourself down over the edge by your hands. Yes. Yes, you can do this. You slowly work your way a few feet down.

"Ere, young lady! Tryin ter escape the law?" you jump, and nearly fall to your death when a faint, grating voice speaks right beside you. You turn your head. A row of hanged men sways in the draft. All are grinning at you.

You've heard of this place. You've landed on Hangman's Arch.

You can't think of anything to say to them and keep climbing. Their eyes follow you, although most seem unable to speak, since their throats are constricted. One calls "'Ere, little lady! C'mere!" and makes a painful attempt at whistling.

You whole body is aching by the time you reach the street. You slide down and rest with your back against the arch for a moment, truncheon in your lap.  
"Well lookit, Agnes. It's another one."  
"A girl! Well, not too pretty, not too ugly. Good enough, I say."  
"My dear, you're incorrigible."  
"Here, then, dearie. Have a mushroom. You look quite worn out. And you'd better find some clothes."  
One of the old ladies tosses you what turns out to be a candied mushroom from her basket. You catch it reflexively and back away, stammering thanks. She's right. You'd better see about looking slightly less suspicious.

Fortunately, Fallen Londoners do not ask many questions.

You sell the smashed manacles for scrap and buy some rags with the change, discarding your prison clothes in a dark corner. Then, for a while, you simply walk among the lights of the Bazaar. You're free. You're here. True, you're no better than a tramp. A barefooted tramp with nothing in her pockets. But with a truncheon! You remind yourself to clean off the blood—it's disturbingly obvious in the brighter light down here. But it's yours. Your only possession, at the moment. You heft it companionably in your hand and wonder what to call it. Yes, of course you're naming it. The wonderful thing got you out of prison and it deserves a name.

You decide to call it Philomena. After a friend.

Barefoot and bloody-truncheon-wielding, you walk down the streets. You've returned to Fallen London, and this time, they're not getting rid of you. Not until you have answers.

Of course, you'd like to have more than one, bloody, rather disreputable possession on your person. There's been a wreck on the river and debris clutters the shore. Urchins and tramps—like yourself, you are forced to admit—scramble about on the mud, picking up the pieces to clean and resell.

Time to go mudlarking.

Truncheon hung down the back of your shirt once more, you ease over the mud. You doubt anyone will help you if you get sucked down and there's nothing nearby to grab onto. But look, a whole case of wine, washed ashore and sunk deep in the mud… you hook the truncheon over a side, and after perhaps forty-five minutes of careful and very slippery crab walking, you're back on terra firma. Now if only you could find some water to wash off. A whole case though! You scan the debris-cluttered riverbanks. It will be enough. Enough to get you food, some slightly less disreputable clothes, some change in your pocket. A beginning.

Philomena helps drag your spoils back to the Bazaar for redemption in Echoes.


	3. Curiosity

_Shadows lie still, here where there is no sun to move them. Sometimes they shiver in candle-light._

You step into your new home, skirts swishing gracefully from your hips. You smooth a few soft folds. The dress was one of your first purchases once you'd managed to accumulate a few echoes. It is grey, practical and has a subdued grace, the kind of dress that says _don't mind me. Nothing of threat here, nothing at all_. In this shadow-colored dress you can be a shadow. You blend in. You excite no suspicion. After your recent experiences, this is nothing but good.

Your landlord stumbles, weeping, into the room behind you and drops your bags on the floor. There isn't much in them, but you have managed to accumulate a few odds and ends. Philomena, occupying the entire length of the bottom of the largest bag, thuds loudly against the floorboards. You wince, but your new landlord doesn't notice. He leaves the room with his face buried in his already sodden handkerchief, sniveling. There is something wrong with that man, but no matter, the rooms are nice, and they were cheap. They stand above a bookstore, at the top of a long, dusty, twisting stair—rather impractical when carrying groceries, but romantic all the same. You have a touch of the artistic, and the high garret-like rooms appeal to you, even if the bookstore itself is uninspiring. You're starting to miss surface literature—indeed, any literature; the bookstore seems to have mostly badly-written bodice-rippers, to your disgust—although you did have a few odds and ends on you which you were able to stash shortly before being arrested, and recover after your escape; several books included. You recite a few lines from _The Ballad of the White Horse_ as you unpack, the cadence bringing to mind the mystic lines of unknown import incised since time unknown into a green hill beneath the sun. The sun. You switch to another part of the poem, one which makes you less homesick. Lines from the shadow beneath ancient trees.

 _His harp was carved and cunning,  
His sword prompt and sharp,  
And he was gay when he held the sword,  
Sad when he help the harp._

 _For the great Gaels of Ireland  
Are the men that God made mad,  
For all their wars are merry,  
And all their songs are sad._

What on earth are you doing here? Are you even on earth? You were too curious, that's all. You were a student of archaeology and literature, burning to discover the hidden and unwind mysteries. The Neath is the largest mystery you know, and of course you would come here before long, stupid as it is. The strangeness of this lightless city lured you like the sound of surf on distant, unexplored shores. Well, you're here now. You hang Philomena on the wall. You still haven't managed to get all of the dubious stains off and she's a bit intimidating. You make a mental note to hang her somewhere other than the sitting room and put a nice painting of the Surface there. As soon as you can afford a painting. At the moment, you're more interested in affording food. You're still adjusting (or not) to the food here. Bread, at least the kind you can afford, is spongy and tastes moldy even when fresh. "Chicken" is some sort of ground up, reconstituted, bouncy stuff which is averse to being cut up and eats like rubber. They do have real eggs, although they don't taste like any from a surface bird. You haven't asked where they come from and you don't intend to. Fruit is scarce enough that it is used as another type of currency and hungrily traded. You are developing a taste for rat. It's real meat, at least, and a man on your street sells little roasted bodies on a stick with a quite palatable sauce. The horrifying thing is that some of the rats in this city appear to be sentient, and you're never sure which kind of rat you are eating. Many Fallen Londoners see no difference between rat and rat, except that one is more dangerous; but you become a little squeamish when you consider that you might be eating something that could talk. However, it's some of the best food you can get on your budget. Your sparse belongings unpacked, you tramp down the long stair and out into the street. The pleasant smell of smoke and roasting rat meets your nostrils. There is a short line in front of the rat cart today, a listless mother gripping the wrists of two bouncing children, a tall thin man in rags, and is that a devil? Well, who knew they liked rat too? It seems everyone does down here. There's also a rubbery man lurking nearby. He seems to be attempting to understand the proceedings, facial tentacles knotted in concentration. You stand at the back of the line, singing quietly to yourself. You don't think anyone is listening. You realize otherwise when there is a squelching noise from close behind you. You whip around and find the rubbery man listening in rapt attention. You jump in surprise, and it scurries away, evidently just as a startled as you. You feel a bit bad for the creature as it sheepishly disappears down an alley. The creatures are speechless and quite docile. You've heard of lone rubbery men being massacred in the street by Fallen Londoners without raising a tentacle in protest, and you wonder why anyone would bother destroying something so apparently nonthreatening. Yes, they look bizarre, but Fallen Londoners have adjusted to living with devils and whatever on earth the Masters are without more than a shrug. Then again, the devils are seductive and generally rich, and the Masters are… Masters. Rubbery men are shy burbling lumps of self-conscious… actually, what are they made out of? All that wriggling…flesh? You can't quite tell. It looks vaguely octopoid. Perhaps snail-like. You shudder slightly and turn your attention back to the line in front of you. The devil pays his echoes and takes two roasted rats. "For the musician," he says, suddenly turning and handing one to you. For the love of sunlight! How many people (?) had been listening to you? You resolve only to sing in the privacy of your rooms in future. You sputter, not sure how to respond to the devil's sultry sharp-toothed smile, which seems to amuse him. He offers, to your alarm, to walk you home, and you explain that you live nearby and he needn't bother, then wonder if you shouldn't have told him that. But it does get him to leave. You don't head for your door until he's gone. At least you think he's gone. You can never tell with devils. But before you can enter the bookstore an urchin comes up to you, looking rather doubtful.  
"Miss? Er, people are wondering what they should call you. I thought if you told me what you prefer I could spread it around." he twirls his hat in grubby hands.  
A name. You can't use your real name at the moment because you were silly enough to give it at New Newgate and it'll be on the records there. What to choose? You can't hesitate for too long or the urchin may be suspicious. They're canny little people.

 _And whether in seat or saddle,  
Whether with frown or smile,  
Whether at feast or fight was he,  
He heard the noise of a nameless sea  
On an undiscovered isle. _

"Colan Harper," you tell him.  
"Any titles, miss?"  
"Miss is fine. Let's not worry with the silly titles." you give him the rest of your rat and he scurries off grinning.

Colan Harper. What were you thinking? Colan is not a girl's name! Then again, many things are different in the Neath. The urchin surely didn't think it odd. Perhaps Colan is a very popular girl's name here. Well, it will be before long. It's yours now. Satisfied, you start the long climb up the dusty stairs.

 **A/N: Well look at that, my protagonist finally** ** _said_** **something! Just her (fake) name, but hey, it's a start.**


End file.
